Married To The Vulture Of Wall Street
I had exactly forty-five minutes to get married, or I would lose the voting shares needed to stop my father from laundering millions through our family foundation. Everything was riding on this one legal signature at the City Clerk’s office.
But just as I reached the front of the line, my phone buzzed with a high-definition photo of my fiancé, Preston, tangled in sheets with a junior associate at a SoHo hotel. The man I was about to tie my life to was a fraud, and my deadline was ticking toward zero.
When I shoved the evidence in his face, he didn't even flinch. Instead, he gripped my wrist until the bone ground together, whispering that I was just a "junkie" fresh out of a Swiss clinic and that no one else would ever marry a liability with a personality disorder. My father was already standing by with a fraudulent medical affidavit, ready to force me into a conservatorship and strip me of my freedom the moment the clock hit 5 PM.
They had spent years using my fake "instability" as a leash, treating me like a broken doll while they bled the company dry. I was the only one with the evidence to take them down, yet I was being discarded like a sunk cost by the very men who were supposed to protect me.
I looked at Preston’s smug face and realized I didn't need a husband; I needed a predator. I scanned the room and spotted Dominik Mack, the "Vulture of Wall Street," a man who specialized in hostile takeovers and stripping men like my father of everything they owned.
I walked straight up to the most dangerous man in New York and offered him a business transaction.
"Do you want to get married?" I asked.
He looked at my trembling hands, then at the man chasing me, and adjusted his collar with clinical detachment.
"Deal," he said.
I didn't just find a groom; I found an accomplice. This wasn't a wedding anymore—it was a declaration of war.
Chapters
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Chapter 7
Two hours later, the pizza box on the table was half empty. The room smelled of pepperoni and ozone.
Zoe hit the enter key with unnecessary force. "Impossible."
Ivy was on the treadmill in the corner, running at a steady pace. It was the only way to burn off the cortisol. "What?"
"He's clean," Zoe said. "Too clean. It's synthetic."
Ivy slowed the machine to a walk. "Explain."
"Harvard Business. Goldman Sachs. Founded Mack Capital. That's the resume. But there's no... life. No speeding tickets. No ex-girlfriends on Instagram. No embarrassing college photos. His digital footprint is manicured."
Ivy wiped sweat from her forehead with a towel. "So he's paranoid."
"Or hiding something huge," Zoe said. "I tried to ping the Mack Capital internal server. I hit a firewall that felt like military grade. If I push harder, they'll trace me."
"Don't," Ivy said. "I can't afford a cyber-crime charge."
Zoe clicked a folder. "I found one thing. Dark web archive. It's a partial image."
She pulled up a grainy photo. It was low resolution. A young man standing in the snow, smoking. He looked hollowed out. Behind him was a building with a distinctive clock tower.
Ivy stepped off the treadmill. She walked closer to the screen.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She knew that clock tower. The Clinic of St. Jude in Zurich. The place her father sent her to "dry out" when she was nineteen, even though she had never touched a drug in her life. It was where she was first recruited, where her 'illness' became the perfect cover.
"He was there," she whispered.
"Patient or visitor?" Zoe asked.
"I don't know."
The buzzer rang. Not the lobby buzzer. The apartment door.
Zoe jumped up. "Preston got in?"
Ivy grabbed a heavy brass candlestick from the table. She walked to the door and looked through the peephole.
It wasn't Preston. It was a courier in a uniform, holding a massive black box.
She opened the door. "Yes?"
"Delivery for Mrs. Mack," the courier said.
Ivy signed for it. She dragged the box inside.
"Bomb?" Zoe asked, peering over the sofa.
Ivy cut the tape. She lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in layers of tissue paper, was a dress. It was midnight blue velvet, structured and severe, with a slit that went up to the thigh. It was armor disguised as fashion.
There was a card.
The Miller Foundation Gala. Tonight. 8 PM. Wear this.
Her father's gala. The one she was explicitly banned from attending.
"He's taking you?" Zoe whistled. "That's a declaration of war. He's marching you right back into the lion's den."
Ivy ran her hand over the velvet. It was soft, but the construction was rigid. He knew. He knew she needed protection.
"Zoe," Ivy said, lifting the dress. "Get the makeup kit. We're going to war."
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8.0
When gifted cellist Vivienne Aurel inherits her late father's catastrophic $4.2 million debt, she expects to lose everything. She doesn't expect the debt to be bought by Caspian Vane, the most feared private equity magnate in New York. Caspian doesn't want to ruin her; he wants her to work exclusively for him as the artistic director of his new cultural foundation for eighteen months. Forced into his world under a binding agreement, Vivienne prepares to fight against a cold, transactional cage. But as the intense, quiet proximity between them begins to blur the lines of their contract, she discovers a terrifying truth: the man who now owns her future has been watching her from the shadows long before she ever knew his name.
7.5
The Duke was standing in the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted to one side. It was a relaxed, casual pose, and yet the way he looked at her was anything but casual. The deep midnight of his eyes burned and he radiated a subtle, sensual energy that made the air around him crackle.
He looked like a man who'd never heard the word 'no' in all his life. Unluckily for him, 'no' was the only word she had.
"There's no reason why I should stay," Anna clasped her shaking hands together in an effort to still them. "I'm not marrying you."
His gaze flickered, his mouth curving slightly, and she had the disturbing thought that far from putting him off, her insistence was only inciting him further.
"But you haven't heard my proposal yet," he said mildly. "Isn't that why you're here?"
"I don't need to hear it. I already know that my answer will be no."
"Of course. But you can hardly tell your father that you heard me out when you haven't, in fact, heard me out.... Anna."
8.3
Imogen Montgomery was the perfect billionaire heiress, deeply in love and ready to marry her fiancé, Clark Ellis.
That all ended the night her cousin Kathleen ripped the sapphire pendant from her neck and pushed her into a pool of toxic chemicals to die.
Two years later, Imogen's eyes snapped open. But she didn't wake up in a hospital. She woke up tied to a stained mattress, trapped in the battered body of Briana, a teenage girl from the slums who had just been sold to a local trafficker.
After violently fighting her way out of a cheap motel, she discovered the horrifying truth. Kathleen had taken over the Montgomery Group. She had locked Imogen's grieving parents away in a psychiatric facility as prisoners.
And worst of all, Kathleen was now flaunting her stolen wealth online, preparing to marry Clark.
A wave of pure, white-hot rage boiled in her blood. Kathleen had murdered her, stolen her family, and was playing the perfect grieving cousin. How was she supposed to fight back? She was just a runaway nobody now. If she tried to expose the truth, Kathleen's security would shoot her dead in the street.
She needed a weapon. She needed a shield. She needed the one man Kathleen feared.
Covered in mud and blood, Briana intercepted Clark's car in the freezing rain. She was going to infiltrate his home as his vulgar, unhinged fake mistress, and she would drag Kathleen straight down to hell.
8.3
Sandra was a mistress: a temporary escape for billionaire David Kingsley.
But in the shadows of his study, "temporary" turned into a dangerous addiction.
When David brutally casts her back into the poverty she fought to escape, Sandra plays her final card: a lie about a pregnancy to keep him tied to her.
The lie becomes a terrifying reality just as David announces his "perfect" life is expanding with a child of his own.
Now, Sandra isn't just a discarded mistress; she's a woman with a secret that could topple an empire.
How far will a woman go when she has nothing left to lose but the life growing inside her?
7.6
My fated mate rejected me in front of the entire pack and they cheered while he did it.
Moving to Nightshade Pack was supposed to be my escape. Instead, I got two step-brothers who looked at me like I was something they wanted to destroy.
Dante Blackwell: brutal, possessive, with eyes that burned through me every time we were in the same room.
Mateo Blackwell: all charm and cruelty, with a smile that shouldn't make my heart race but does.
They made my life hell. Every day was a new way to remind me I didn't belong.
But one incident changed it all.
What happens when the step-brothers you're supposed to hate become the ones you can't stop craving? When the mate who destroyed you comes crawling back? When the broken girl they underestimated discovers she's something they should fear?
Sometimes the prey becomes the predator.
8.0
My husband, Aiden, brought his mistress to a gala. She was carrying my clutch bag, a gift from him. He was laughing, daring me to make a scene.
But the ultimate cruelty wasn't the affair. It was when he brought up my kidnapping from ten years ago, using my deepest trauma as a weapon to publicly shame me.
His mistress, Ember, piled on, her voice dripping with false pity.
"Oh, Julia, I just can't imagine what you went through. Aiden told me everything. How you were… so damaged."
I suddenly realized who she was: the daughter of the man who had orchestrated my kidnapping. This wasn't just an affair; it was a long-con revenge plot to destroy the company I had sacrificed everything to save.
Aiden, the man who once swore to protect me, was her willing pawn. His cruelty had already cost me our unborn child years ago.
In that moment, the last bit of love I had for him turned to ice. He thought he was breaking me.
He had no idea he was just handing me the keys to his destruction.